I think it’s fair to say that most of us living in the mid-Atlantic region right now [who have had 3 feet of snow in less than a week] are experiencing some version of “cabin fever”.
It’s at such times that I truly lament the fact that I am single.
Oh, it’s true, I could really use a bit of help with the shoveling and I would have much rather sent a hapless husband up onto the roof in the blizzard this morning… but the real reason for my complaint has little to do with needing manly muscles or shoving the bad jobs off on someone else.
I really need to have an argument.
Not a tiff, not a disagreement, but a knock-down drag-out fight with dishes flying. The animals are doing it. Ah, how I envy them their ability to butt heads, have skirmishes over food, chase, shove, bite, and growl and generally wreak havoc. They too, you know, have cabin fever.
Their living and walking spaces have been reduced to a miserable fraction of what they are used to and the cramped quarters amidst the snowdrifts are icy, open-air jail cells. Fences have come down, roofs collapsed, Little Boy Goat has taken it upon himself to destroy the side of the barn, and the poor chickens have had their quarters invaded by an enormous flock of wild birds who refuse to vacate.
The anxiety level of the dogs who have been housebound since Friday is so elevated that they follow on my heels if I’m only walking to the coffee machine, and I truly believe we might have had fatalities over a certain rawhide toy yesterday had I not intervened.
Oh, I’ve tried having an argument with the larger beasts who stand in the narrow barn corridor while I’m trying to shovel out pounds of manure – I shout, stamp my feet, push, and they turn their heads placidly, planting their 1500-2000 pounds firmly and saying “wha?” You just can’t have a decent argument with someone who won’t shout back.
My frustration with the tractor reached quite the fevered pitch as it repeatedly got mired in drifts, and I had to dig it out by hand while getting hammered with blasts of cold, snowy air (the crowning point being getting stuck under the mulberry tree which, as I maneuvered, dumped its entire contents of accumulated snow down my jacket).
But fights with inanimate objects, in my experience, generally do not end well on the animate side.
No, the awful truth is that while we may not have another such set of storms for a while, I’ve realized the folly of living the life of Norwegian Bachelor(ette) Farmer and may be putting out a placard soon in front of the farm gates: “Wanted: husband, any age, size or shape for regular and thorough disagreements (and occasional snow shoveling)”.
Now all of you go and give your loved ones a good slap upside the head!
Till next time,
Star Gazing Farm 501(c)3
A haven for retired farm animals and wayward goats